


Slow Burn

by levitatethis



Series: Slow Burn [1]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-16
Updated: 2010-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 11:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylar's thoughts and feelings towards Mohinder change over time</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Burn

**_I am not your rolling wheels ~~ I am the highway ~~ I am not your carpet ride ~~ I am the sky ~~ I am not your blowing wind ~~ I am the lightning ~~ I am not your autumn moon ~~ I am the night   
_-Audioslave, I Am The Highway**   


Sylar does not like Mohinder

He seeks him out of necessity. Mohinder, amongst a select few who can scientifically and emotionally grasp the evolutionary brink on which the human race stands, is the one person—the stand alone—whom Sylar can place any type of hold on (trust in) if he is to remain three steps ahead. It is a numbers game and Sylar likes to be well informed of all the various hands in play.

Mohinder is that intermediary key in human form and Sylar’s ability to twist and turn him into place is based on a fortunate set of past events (unlucky for Mohinder as the case is) that put Mohinder into play in a world wide game of dominos that is just as easily manipulated as it is beyond any of their control.

There is nothing more to Sylar’s continued appearance in Mohinder’s life. It is cold and informal, strictly work related, for survival.

It is also becoming a habit.

 

**_here shall we live in this terrible town ~~ where the price for our eyes ~~ shall squeeze them tight like a fist ~~ and the walls shall have eyes ~~ and the doors shall have ears ~~ but we’ll dance in their dark ~~ and they’ll play with our lives   
_-David Bowie, Slow Burn   
**  
Gabriel has been let down many times in his life.

The love of his family, as real as it was, worked against him. It strapped him down to an unimportant life that he could barely breathe in. But without an exit sign an escape strategy was nonexistent.

He regretfully accepted the undistinguished life bestowed upon him. Turning inwards he found a world within that gave his days a sense of movement and his nights the air of possibility. Mostly he re-channeled lost hope into work, finding a purpose in the exquisite timepieces that lay open before him.

Their secrets uncovered they were magnificence thrown off balance, but Gabriel understood their broken language. He conversed in focused silence and delicate touch. It did not bother him that his truest companions would never be seen as anything more than springs and screws by the oblivious world outside the store.

When the glimmer of hope spilled out from behind a slightly parted door Gabriel knew not to forget those who really cared about him. But he was blindsided by the great unknown, by his own springs and screws being reset, and he rushed into elevating a mortal man into his realm.

It was a deadly mistake, for the mortal.

For Gabriel it was everything he had been waiting for.

Renaming himself Sylar was Gabriel’s way of reclaiming his life. No longer willing to sit back, Sylar is the showman’s cloak he wears that outwardly announces his arrival, his presence; his unequalled existence. Sylar is Gabriel’s inside world projected out.

Many make the mistake of thinking Gabriel does not exist anymore or is some desperate blithering weakling locked away. It is not that Gabriel is gone or cowering deep inside. Sylar, after all, is Gabriel; they are the same person by a different name.

What’s in a name? All of Gabriel’s past hurts, everything he made sure would never touch or brandish him again.

It is the name he buries. Not the man.

 

**_she eyes me like a pisces when I am weak ~~ I’ve been locked inside your heart-shaped box four whole weeks ~~ I’ve been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap ~~ I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black   
_-Nirvana, Heart-Shaped Box   
**  
Their conversations unfold as an endless stream.

It has always been that way, from the time when it was lies first and character disguises to the knowing and disturbed truth displayed gruesomely in front of their eyes. The change in their circumstances seems to proportionally enhance any and all discussions between them.

Sylar commits each one to memory along with any gestures and inflections of emphasis or dissuasiveness that Mohinder, knowingly and subconsciously, offers up.

Somewhere on the way from Malaga to Alicante he becomes aware of a bothersome truth. Mohinder is the one person who would not have walked away from Gabriel, as he existed all those uniformly repetitive years ago in Grays and Sons. The profound realization does not give Sylar pause for thought. It angers him instead.

Had Mohinder stepped into his life a few years earlier than he did Gabriel would not have found the inner drive to redirect his life towards its true purpose. He would have remained a watchmaker in an uncomplicated and acceptable life.

He would have been content.

Sylar halts the progression of “what if” by focusing his attention on the limited information Bennet has given them to find their latest target in Spain. The idea that he would have accepted such an inconsequential life because of Mohinder troubles Sylar and he deflects the insecurity this thought induces through sarcasm and an onslaught of questions meant to keep Mohinder occupied.

He ignores the curious eyes Mohinder settles on him from the driver’s seat.

 

**_I would sacrifice anything come what may ~~ for the sake of having you near ~~ in spite of a warning voice that comes in the night ~~ and repeats, how it yells in my ear ~~ don’t you know little fool ~~ you never can win ~~ why not use your mentality ~~ wake up, step up to reality ~~ but each time I do just the thought of you ~~ makes me stop just before I begin ~~ ‘cause I’ve got you under my skin   
_-Frank Sinatra, I’ve Got You Under My Skin   
**  
Sylar cannot put into words the vibrant sensation that flows through his body when he accumulates a new power. There is a very explicit feeling, faithful to this one particular motion, which accompanies the restructuring of connections in his brain as a new ability takes up residence.

An added rush comes from it now being a sanctioned action by Bennet and Peter, directing Sylar’s natural inclination towards those whom they agree “misuse” their powers. It is a compromise that suits them all, but reservations still strain conversations.

Sylar does not concern himself with how Bennet and Peter feel over encouraging acts of murder (or survival of the fittest as Sylar coins it to distinguish himself from those who kill for the pleasure of the act and nothing else). Sylar’s interest lies in what he can gain from working with those who had once tortured him and tried to kill him.

There is a deeper enjoyment that Sylar gets from these tense agreements that supercedes anything to do with Bennet and Peter. He experiences a thrill in proud and defiant Mohinder morally zigzagging with what he is willing to accept or turn a blind eye from. Sylar sees the disgust in Mohinder’s eyes over each murder, no matter whom the person is and what horrific things they have committed; a general plague on humanity.

It is not that Mohinder feels sorry for these victims but that the act of taking a life, particularly with pre-meditated intent, is difficult to accept. But he does.

Watching Mohinder push aside repugnance to play partner in tracking down very specific Specials brings about a rush of blood through Sylar’s body. To not only have Mohinder with him during the act (or at least waiting for him outside to finish) but to pull Mohinder further along that gray spectrum closer to his side with each name, trip, and conversation makes Sylar feel more complete in the present and less likely to dwell on a past that never happened.

Mohinder’s resistance is something worthy of going up against. He has a fighting spirit and not just in a scrappy, rough and tumble, kind of way but with a thoughtful and tactical approach that Sylar enjoys cracking through. It is that same defiance, however, that has been a learning lesson for Sylar, forcing him to rethink previously unchallenged battle moves and intellectual skirmishes.

When he looks at Mohinder he is reminded of mistakes that nearly cost him his life—at the hands of a non-powered person, no less. That fact disgusts him. He should be able to look at Mohinder with nothing more than amusement and condescension.

He uses Mohinder as a touchstone to gage his own strengths and weakness so that he can regroup and refocus.

He should not be reminded of his own humanity.

Yet when Mohinder looks back at him—sometimes questioningly, other times angrily or with awe, sometimes with the hint of a smile—Sylar is certain Mohinder can see right through him.

Under scrutinizing eyes Sylar feels like one of his timepieces: humbled and unique.

 

**_come as you are, as you were ~~ as I want you to be ~~ as a friend, as a friend, as an old enemy ~~ take your time, hurry up ~~ the choice is yours, don’t be late ~~ take a rest as a friend, as an old memory   
_-Nirvana, Come As You Are**   
  
Topics are of a hodge-podge variety.

Aristotle, Nietzsche, Machiavelli are discussed, applied to historical and present day situations, then debated on long seamless stretches of road. Voices are raised for emphasis, hand gestures accentuate points; scoffing laughter encourages the intellectual display instead of dismissing it.

Sylar slowly comes to share details of growing up in a devout church going family while Mohinder shares his partiality to atheism while still holding on to elements of Hinduism. They discuss creationism and evolution with a cautious verve that comes from knowing you never discuss religion or politics with those you want to be friends with or have to work with.

But they do not shy away from the risky topics. There is a wordless respect that Sylar feels for Mohinder’s opinion. Such thought is put into it, such consideration, and Mohinder shares it with him increasingly freely, not so restricted in the past of once was.

In return Sylar feels a more personal involvement in the stories and ideas he places at Mohinder’s feet. An element of passing the time gives way to the decorated quiet and adorned revelations in which Sylar inwardly revels. Ideas that once only existed for his private contemplations come to bask in a worthy appreciation.

The death of his father from a heart attack rings forth from Sylar’s lips as a hushed confession he has spoken to no one before. There is an anguished thank you in his tone for Mohinder’s lack of interruption and the gentle eyes that instinctively understand (although Sylar knows full well that he can never bring Chandra up).

Restaurants, diners, ten minute pit stops welcome badly told jokes and entertaining people watching, recollections of books that saved them from themselves and films that foretold of worlds they longed to cling to.

Motel rooms bare witness to the most heartfelt of secrets. Mohinder unburdens himself of the disappointment and anger he internalized while traveling soon after September 11. For awhile it did not matter that the perpetrators were not Indian, all his fellow travelers saw was his skin, all they heard was his accent, he existed only as some “other” meant to be watched and analyzed, glared at and feared.

Sylar is mesmerized, against his better judgment, by honest declarations without pretense. He ponders turning himself inside out and putting himself on display for Mohinder to pick through as he chooses.

Sylar takes an added pleasure in the killings he commits on the nights when he wants nothing more than to lie on a ratty motel bed and fill the space between him and Mohinder with stories.

 

**_he was something to observe ~~ came in close, I heard a voice ~~ standing stretching every nerve ~~ I had to listen had no choice ~~ I did not believe the information ~~ just had to trust imagination ~~ my heart was going boom, boom, boom   
_-Peter Gabriel, Salisbury Hill   
**  
When he goes in to make a kill on his own there is sometimes a certain amount of time to pass before he can set everything into motion with no interruption. As common as the act has become there is still an excited anxiousness beforehand.

Alone and patient Sylar hears Mohinder’s voice in his head. The smooth curvatures of words as they flow forward, from one to the next, lull a calm from Sylar’s head down to his toes.

He does not need to close his eyes to see Mohinder before him. Lean and bold, gentle yet forceful, Mohinder proceeds with purpose and uncertainty. Like out of the corner of his eye Sylar is transfixed by the presence of somebody who should have remained nothing more than a nobody at his side. Opposing Sylar or planting himself in Sylar’s space, Mohinder’s body is his words in motion, brought to life, for Sylar to outmatch, tame, outrun.

Talkative eyes that Sylar can never escape from greet him when he closes his own, asking, demanding, insisting, laughing. He feels Mohinder’s chest press into his left arm when Mohinder leans in to whisper, spilling hot breath on waiting skin, about a potential target sitting at the table for two at the back of the restaurant. Before Sylar looks that way he casts a secret glance at Mohinder’s profile while trying to appear inconspicuous.

It is catching Mohinder watching him, however, that raises goose bumps along his skin and brings a concealed smile to his face.

Mohinder looks away as if unaffected but Sylar catches the momentary fluster in shifty eyes that glance to the floor in the same second that Mohinder regroups (the speed of which is a fine art that Sylar admires).

It is not only in the unexpected that Sylar finds this glimpse of …maybe—

Sometimes when they talk Mohinder’s gaze lingers serenely on his, longer than natural for two people who—

Sylar has rested a firm hand on Mohinder’s shoulders while walking next to him without Mohinder flinching or stepping away—

A shared joke finds Mohinder leaning into his space, laughter filling the distance alongside happy eyes and a wide grin while Sylar rests a hand on his back and floods his own vibrating laughter upon Mohinder’s shaking body—

When Mohinder is (supposed to be) going through tactical information across the diner table or while sitting on the motel bed Sylar can feel his eyes watching him out of the corner of his own while he pretends to focus on blueberry pancakes or the disheveled waitress, while he pretends to care about moronic contestants on reality television shows.

Sylar is aware of the likely possibility that Mohinder is brilliantly masking resentment for having to work with him and is waiting for the right time to try to kill him again.

But when the mood strikes (a little too often now) Sylar wonders if all these moments could mean something else, if Mohinder could be struggling with the same thing he is.

It is easy to ignore the desired want for returned feelings. Sylar prefers the complicated route. 

 

_**once I stood to lose her ~~ and when I saw what I had done ~~ burned down and threw away the hours ~~ of her garden and her sun ~~ so I tried to warn her ~~ I turned to see her weep ~~ forty days and forty nights ~~ and it’s still coming down on me**   
_ **-Gordon Peterson, Hard Sun **

Four times and counting.

Four times Sylar has managed to halt himself from crossing the precipice, stopping the words, “You can call me Gabriel,” from ripping through his protective skin.

It seems fitting that the one person who Sylar would dig up his name for is the one he cannot figure out. Mohinder seems deserving all the same.

There is a growing intensity to the urge Sylar feels to hear his given name, Gabriel, dance from Mohinder’s lips wrapped in a rhythmic accent with intent.

Flat on his back in the single bed of a two star dive somewhere in Budapest, Sylar turns his face in the moonlit darkness towards Mohinder in the other bed. Mohinder is curled up on his side watching Sylar as they talk about what city they would like to be sent to next, but Sylar can barely concentrate.

_Call me Gabriel._

He snatches the words back before they ever see the hazy light.

While Mohinder lists the pros and cons of traveling expectations all Sylar can do is picture Mohinder rolling off of his bed and walking over. He can see Mohinder lay down next to him, on his side, propping his head up on one arm while resting his free one on Sylar’s chest. He can feel Mohinder’s fingers lightly skirting the bottom of his neck while he rests his own hand on top, absorbing the heat from Mohinder’s skin below. Two smiles melt the darkness and Mohinder whispers, “Gabriel.”

With time the unspoken request surprised Sylar with the hardness it strained against cotton pajama bottoms. He had to turn on his side, back to Mohinder, and will it away.

He snaps at Mohinder, turns all doom and gloom moody in retaliation for his own weakness. Sylar punishes himself by keeping Mohinder at arms length. The annoyed frustration of confusion on Mohinder’s face accuses him of being a pain in the ass and is followed by a drawn out silent treatment.

Mohinder stubbornly knows how to hold a grudge. It causes Sylar’s temper to boil while he wallows in self-imposed torment.

 

**_maybe there is a god above ~~ but all I’ve ever learned from love ~~ is how to shoot somebody who outdrew you ~~ well it’s not a cry that you hear at night ~~ it’s not somebody who’s seen the light ~~ it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah   
_-Jeff Buckley (by way of Leonard Cohen), Hallelujah**

Sylar wishes he had never agreed to not use any of his acquired abilities on Mohinder. It was all part of the deep-seated trust issues their working together was built on. Mohinder had wryly promised not to drug him. Mostly Sylar is angry with himself for not going against his word, for not wanting to.

When they have one of those arguments that is destined to turn repressively explosive while seething forms take up fighting positions on opposite sides of the room Sylar resists the temptation to toss Mohinder up to the ceiling, old school style. The times when Mohinder ignores him and treats him like a petulant child Sylar twitches his finger imagining deep-set gashes cutting through smooth skin, affirming his existence. Even when all is fine (or is as okay as it can be) between them Sylar gives thought to awing Mohinder with tricks of the trade, but he knows one would lead to another and then a line would accidentally get crossed.

A look of betrayal on Mohinder’s face works wonders in suppressing the want.

If Sylar could only use one power on Mohinder it would have to be the one he took a year and a half ago in Moscow. A natural truth serum, the sound of a KGB agent Vladimir Prokofiev’s voice forced anyone he spoke with to answer with the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

There are so many things Sylar would like to know: the inner workings of the different Company levels that Bennet and Mohinder jibe each other about, the more intricate details of Mohinder’s continued research, the specifics of private conversations between Mohinder and Peter over the phone which Mohinder either continues outside the diner while pacing around the parking lot or takes into the hotel bathroom while closing the door behind him and turning the tap on to muffle the discussion. He knows that Mohinder is aware he could still listen if he chose to but there is something in Mohinder’s actions that Sylar honours.

That does not stop him from wanting to know if Mohinder still carries a hatred for him and is simply trying to remain cordial as their jobs require them to be or if that once blinding drive for vengeance has altered. Sylar wants to know if his curious guesses about Mohinder’s actions and silent words are founded or only signs of his own pathetic vulnerabilities.

He transfers unquenched aggression into his work, experimenting with the precision of killing techniques and interrogative style. On occasion when Mohinder is present for a target’s final act (or the moments leading up to it) they work in tag team movements sounding as if they are having an offhand conversation much to the panicked confusion of the intended victim. So familiar are the choreographed steps that Sylar can play his part while tuning out, trying not to get lost in Mohinder as his main focus and redirecting his pounding uncertainty into a most painful infliction of torture.

Sylar does not care if his enjoyment for such grotesque actions rankle the muted revulsion that Mohinder’s eyes and tightly turned mouth hurl at him after the fact. If anything it legitimizes Sylar’s repeated mantra that Mohinder means nothing.

 

**_nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight ~~ got to kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight   
_-Bruce Cockburn, Lovers In A Dangerous Time   
**  
He can smell Mohinder (all generic hotel soap and subtle musky pheromones) before he feels the strong hand on his shoulder shaking him briskly, before he hears the urgent whisper, “Sylar!”

His tired eyes open to frantic ones and all Mohinder has to say is, “We have to go. Now!” before Sylar is out of bed pulling his jeans on over his boxers and a black hoodie over a t-shirt. Stealing glances at Mohinder who is focused intently on making sure nothing is being left behind Sylar realizes he has not asked Mohinder why the sudden panic, why the rush to leave.

The clear truth staring him in the face is that he trusts Mohinder with his life or at least with wanting to try to protect it.

This could be used against him and most probably will, but he cannot change an increasingly apparent fact.

He follows Mohinder’s quick steps down the hallway towards the elevator watching the tense shoulders and rigid focus forward that consumes Mohinder’s body language. At the elevator Mohinder pushes the down button repeatedly and taps his left foot impatiently as they wait.

“Mohinder?” Sylar says keeping his eyes trained on him and sees no response.

“Mohinder?” Sylar asks again, now with an unintended trace of worry in his voice.

The foot tapping stops and Mohinder turns his face to Sylar’s with an expression of concern so apparent it turns Sylar’s stomach.

“It’ll be okay,” Mohinder states quietly. “I promise.”

 

**_all the world has closed her eyes ~~ tried faith all worn and thin ~~ for all we could have done ~~ and all that could have been ~~ ocean pulls me close ~~ and whispers in my ear ~~ the destiny I’ve chose ~~ all becoming clear   
_-Nine Inch Nails, Great Below**

Had he given any analytical thought to the possibility, he would not have been so caught off guard. In the Ukrainian capital’s back office of a Chinese shape-shifting mob boss Bennet crouches over the day old dead body and announces that the biggest target on their list is potentially three days away and will be dealt with by Sylar and Peter; two ability rich Specials working in tandem against a man who has accumulated an enviable arsenal of powers that piques Sylar’s envy.

In the same breath Bennet states that Mohinder will now partner with him in tracking down a rogue Company employee believed to be in Panama.

Sylar is not surprised at being split up from Mohinder rather it is the timing that throws him off. He works hard to keep the mask of apathy face forward as the change in plans is passed down to them.

All this time with just the two of them and he had felt himself going soft, getting emotionally involved. This is a good and necessary change up Sylar convinces himself. Partnering with Peter will keep him focused on the job without the distraction that Mohinder has become.

Leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest Sylar surveys the room in a calculated fashion letting his eyes glide from Bennet hovering over the body to Mohinder and Peter in the middle of the room. Standing close together hushed words rush back and forth from both their mouths in response to Bennet’s orders.

Sylar watches Peter lean into Mohinder placing his lips close to Mohinder’s ear as he explains something. Mohinder’s expression appears to change from confusion to dejection to resigned acceptance and he turns his gaze to Sylar’s.

Their shared look holds until Mohinder looks back to Peter and nods. A moment later Mohinder is walking towards Bennet and Peter is moving towards Sylar.

Loopholes.

Sylar never promised to not use any of his abilities on Peter and there are so many questions he would kill to know the answers to.

Peter smiles cautiously as he nears and Sylar grins back, throwing a quick look to Mohinder’s form standing over Bennet, before resettling on Peter.

Now he can finally start making some headway. 

**Author's Note:**

> Heroes Slash Awards  
> **Nominated for Best Sylar (Gabriel) Characterization**
> 
> Mylar Fic Awards  
> **Nominated for Best Sylar Characterization** (WINNER)


End file.
